XXXV BEATRICE
The shining face
Smiled straight into the skies;
A rosy glow was on her archéd neck;
Her radiant brow,
Lofty, serene, and fair,
And her glance like a rose new-blown,
And the fresh smile
Of pure youth,
Awakened in the heart new ecstasies:
But awe-inspiring
And with fear entrancing
Was her presence.
Floating on the wind
In the morning air
Was her sky-blue mantle, her white veil.
Like Our Lady from heaven
She passed before me,
An angel in seeming and yet all so ardent.
My mind stopped thinking
But to look at her,
And the soul was at rest—but for sighing.
Then said I: O how or when
Did earth deserve
That such a mark of love be given her?
What reckless ancestors
Gave thee to the world?
What age ever bore so fair a thing as thou?
What serener star
Produced thy form?
What love divine evolved thee from its light?
Easily the ways of man
Following the blessed guidance
Of thee, Beatrice, were all made new!
—“Not a woman, but the Idea
Am I, which heaven did offer
For man to study when seeking things on high.
“When hearts, not wholly cooled
Of their potential fires,
Fought hard with life severe, and with the truth,
“And to the valiant thinking
And courageous hope
Faith and true love lent arms of constancy,—
“Then, from my airy seat descending,
Among these gallant souls I came,
Kindled and kept alive their ardent zeal;
“And, faithful to my champions,
Clasped in their mighty embrace,
I made them worship Death—yea, and Defeat,
“While, traced by dreamy souls
In verse and colours,
I wandered through the laurels on Arno's banks.
“In vain you look for me
'Mong your poor household gods—
No Bice Portinari—I am the Idea!”
Juvenilia.